Eminent Americans

My guest on this episode of the podcast is Timothy Lensmire, professor of Education at the University of Minnesota and the author or editor of, among other works, White Folks: Race and Identity in Rural America; Powerful Writing, Responsible Teaching; and Whiteness at the Table: Antiracism, Racism, and Identity in Education. He is also a co-founder of the Midwest Critical Whiteness Collective (MCWC).Tim and I talk primarily about two things: the powerful critique that he and his MCWC colleagues have made, from the anti-racist left, of Peggy McIntosh’s seminal essay on white privilege (commonly known as the “invisible knapsack” essay), and Tim’s own work on whiteness and white identity.We also just talk, in general, about the ways that both the left and right over-simplify the complexity of being white in America, and how these over-simplifications get in the way of getting to where most (or at least many) of us would like to get.Episode reading list: This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit danieloppenheimer.substack.com/subscribe

Reading list:* Corey Robin's Facebook Page* Not Yet Falling Apart: Two thinkers on the left offer a guide to navigating the stormy seas of modernity, by moi* Straight Outta Chappaqua: How Westchester-bred lefty prof Corey Robin came to loathe Israel, defend Steven Salaita, and help cats, by Phoebe Maltz Bovy* Online Fracas for a Critic of the Right, by Jennifer Schuessler* Scholar Behind U. of Illinois Boycotts Is a Longtime Activist, by Marc ParryA few years ago, I got this text from a friend after my guest on this episode of the podcast, Corey Robin, said something nice about my book on Facebook: “When Corey Robin is praising you on Facebook, you’ve arrived, my friend.”He was being funny, but also just saying a true thing. Corey Robin is a big deal on the intellectual left in America, and for the better part of a decade, from about 2012 to 2019, his Facebook page was one of the most vital and interesting spaces on the American intellectual left. Back in 2017, I wrote this about Corey and his most influential book, The Reactionary Mind: Conservatism from Edmund Burke to Sarah Palin:The Reactionary Mind has emerged as one of the more influential political works of the last decade. Robin himself has become, since the book’s publication, one of the more aura-laden figures on the intellectual left. Paul Krugman cites him and the book periodically in his New York Times columns and on his blog. Robin’s Facebook page, which he uses as a blog and discussion forum, has become one of the places to watch to understand where thinking on the left is. Another key node of the intellectual left is Crooked Timber, a group blog of left-wing academics to which Robin is a long-time contributor, and another is Jacobin, a socialist magazine that often re-publishes Robin’s blog posts sans edits, like dispatches from the oracle.I've long been fascinated by Corey's Facebook page, in particular, because it was such a novel space. It couldn't exist prior to the internet, and if there were any other important writers who used the platform in that way, as a real venue for thoughtful and vigorous political discussion, I'm not familiar with them. It didn’t replace or render obsolete the magazines, like The Nation and Dissent, that were the traditional places where the left talked to itself. It was just a different thing, an improvisational, unpredictable, rolling forum where you went to see what people of a certain bent were talking about, who the key players were, what the key debates were. And Corey himself, in this context, had a charismatic presence. To even get him to respond seriously to a comment you made on one of his posts was to get a little thrill. To be praised by Corey, in the main text of a post, was to feel like you were a made man. Over the past few weeks I've spent some time dipping into the archives of his page, and while there I compiled a list of notable names who showed up as commenters. My list included: Lauren Berlant, Matt Karp, Tim Lacy, Miriam Markowitz, Annette Gordon Reed,  Doug Henwood, Jeet Heer, Freddie Deboer, Raina Lipsitz, Elayne Tobin, Scott Lemieux, Paul Buhle, Jedediah Purdy, Jodi Dean, Alex Gourevitch, Tamsin Shaw, Rick Perlstein, Greg Grandin, Katha Pollitt, Joel Whitney, Liza Featherstone, Andrew Hartman, Rebecca Vilkomerson, Samuel Moyn, Tim Lacy, Yasmin Nair, Bhaskar Sunsara, Keeanga Yamahtta Taylor, Gideon Lewis Kraus.This is just the people I recognized (or googled ) in my brief time skimming. The full list of eminent leftist Americans who populated Corey's page over the years would surely run to hundreds of names, which is to say that a significant portion, maybe even a majority, of the writers and intellectuals who comprised the intellectual left in those years was reading and participating in his page. How this came about, and what it meant, is one of the topics we cover in the podcast, which ended up being a kind of stock-taking of sorts of the very recent history of the American left. We also talk about Corey’s involvement as an organizer with GESO, Yale's graduate student union, when he was getting his PhD in political science; his retrospective thoughts on why he over-estimated the strength of the American left in the mid-2010s; what he got right about Trump and Trumpism; and why Clarence Thomas may be corrupt, but is at least intellectually honest about it. Corey is a professor at Brooklyn College and the author of three books: Fear: The History of a Political Idea, The Reactionary Mind: Conservatism from Edmund Burke to Sarah Palin (revised and re-issued as Reactionary Mind: Conservatism from Edmund Burke to Donald Trump), and most recently The Enigma of Clarence Thomas. He has written for The New Yorker, The New York Review of Books, the London Review of Books, and Jacobin, among many other places.  Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit danieloppenheimer.substack.com/subscribe

Episode Reading List:* From Queer to Gay to Queer, James Kirchick* How Hannah Arendt’s Zionism Helped Create American Gay Identity, Blake Smith* When the Pope Hits Your Eye Like a Big Pizza Pie, That’s Ahmari, James Kirchick* Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s Big Fat Nonbinary Mistake, Blake Smith* Are Conservatives the New Queers?, Blake Smith* Wesley Yang, The Souls of Yellow Folk, John PistelliI have a working hypothesis that no one has suffered a more dramatic decline in a certain kind of social status, as a result of changes in left-liberal elite culture and politics, than white gay men. Less than a decade ago they were at the vanguard of social progress, having led a gay rights movement that achieved an extraordinary series of legal, political, and cultural victories. Now they're perceived as basically indistinguishable, within certain left-liberal spaces, from straight white men. In some activist circles they may be even more suspect, since they're competing for leadership roles and narrative centrality where straight men wouldn't presume (or particularly desire) to tread. My hypothesis, if it's accurate, is interesting on its own terms, as part of a much longer history in America of ethnic and other minority groups rising and falling in relative cultural, intellectual, and literary status. It's also interesting, however, for what it tells us about the recent evolution of left and liberal politics, as they've shifted and reshaped themselves in reaction to both great victories, like the legalization of gay marriage, and to depressingly intractable problems like the persistent racial gaps in wealth, health, incarceration, and crime.I’m less interested in the justice or injustice of this shift in standing (though I’m somewhat interested) than I am in the facts of it and its implications. Why has it happened? What does it feel like for the people who have experienced it? What are its implications? Will there be a backlash? To assist me in thinking through what it all means, I invited to the podcast Blake Smith and Jamie Kirchick. Jamie is a columnist for Tablet magazine, a writer at large for Air Mail, and the author of last year’s New York Times bestseller, Secret City: The Hidden History of Gay Washington. He has long been an outspoken critic of some sectors of the gay left and what he perceives of as their desire to subordinate the project of achieving full civic and political equality for gay people to a more radical, revolutionary project to tear down conventional bourgeois ideas of gender, sexuality, marriage, family, monogamy, and identity. In a recent essay in Liberties, “From Queer to Gay to Queer,” Jamie compares the liberal tenets of the gay rights movement to the radical aspirations of what he calls “political queerness”: With its insistence that gay people adhere to a very narrow set of political and identitarian commitments, to a particular definition that delegitimates everything outside of itself, political queerness is deeply illiberal. This is in stark opposition to the spirit of the mainstream gay rights movement, which was liberal in every sense — philosophically, temperamentally, and procedurally. It achieved its liberal aspirations (securing equality) by striving for liberal aims (access to marriage and the military) via liberal means (at the ballot box, through the courts, and in the public square). Appealing to liberal values, it accomplished an incredible revolution in human consciousness, radically transforming how Americans viewed a once despised minority. And it did so animated by the liberal belief that inclusion does not require the erasure of one’s own particular identity, or even the tempering of it. By design, the gay movement was capacious, and made room for queers in its vision of an America where sexual orientation was no longer a barrier to equal citizenship. Queerness, alas, has no room for gays. The victory of the gay movement and its usurpation by the queer one represents an ominous succession. The gay movement sought to reform laws and attitudes so that they would align with America’s founding liberal principles; the queer movement posits that such principles are intrinsically oppressive and therefore deserving of denigration. The gay movement was grounded in objective fact; the queer movement is rooted in Gnostic postmodernism. For the gay movement, homosexuality was something to be treated as any other benign human trait, whereas the queer movement imbues same-sex desire and gender nonconformity with a revolutionary socio-political valence. (Not for the first time, revolution is deemed more important than rights.) And whereas the gay movement strived for mainstream acceptance of gay people, the queer movement finds the very concept of a mainstream malevolent, a form of “structural violence.” Illiberal in its tactics, antinomian in its ideology, scornful of ordinary people and how they choose to live, and glorifying marginalization, queerness is a betrayal of the gay movement, and of gay people themselves. In the podcast I refer to Jamie as “a man alone.” This isn't quite true. He has comrades out there, in particular older gay writers like Andrew Sullivan and Jonathan Rauch, who share many of his commitments and critiques. Generationally, however, Jamie seems more alone than they do, without a cohort of gay intellectuals of roughly his age who share his intellectual reference points, his liberalism, and his very specific experience of coming of age as a gay man and journalist in America when he did, at his specific point of entry to AIDS, the decline of print and rise of online journalism, and the political advance of gay (and more recently trans) rights. He’s a man alone but also, if the premise of this podcast is accurate, a man alone who has been publicly articulating a set of feelings and arguments that is shared by many of his gay male peers, of various generations, but hasn’t yet taken shape in the form of a political or intellectual reaction.Blake Smith is my first return guest to the podcast, having recently joined me to discuss Pulitzer Prize-winning essayist and critic Andrea Long Chu (the “it girl of the trans world,” as I called her). He is a recent refugee from academia, now living and working as a freelance writer in Chicago, writing for Tablet magazine, American Affairs, and elsewhere. At 35 he is only a few years younger than Jamie, but is the product of a very different set of formative biographical and intellectual influences. Raised in a conservative Southern Baptist family in a suburb of Memphis, Blake’s big coming out, as he tells the story, was less as a gay man than as the kind of academically credentialed, world-traveling, city-based sophisticate he has become. If Jamie’s sense of loss is maybe something in the vicinity of what I proposed at the top of this post–that he went from being in the ultimately victorious mainstream of the gay rights struggle to being seen as a member of the privileged oppressor class, at best a second-class “ally” and at worst an apostate to the cause –than Blake’s experience is less about any personal or political loss of status or standing than it is a variant of the venerable intellectual and literary tradition of pining for a scene or scenes from eras prior to your own. Think Owen Wilson’s character in Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, who was magically transported back to Paris in the 1920s, the scene he’d always romanticized, only to fall in love with a woman from that era who herself romanticizes and eventually chooses to abandon him for another, earlier cultural moment, the Belle Époque scene of the 1890s. For Blake, the key era, maybe, was the brief post-Stonewall period before AIDS superseded all other concerns––so the 1970s, more or less– when gay male life was sufficiently out of the closet for a gay male public to come into existence and begin to define itself and understand how it related, or didn’t relate, not just to the straight world but also to feminism, women, Marxism, black civil rights, and other left-wing and liberal movements. In a recent piece in Tablet, Blake writes about the magazine Christopher Street, founded in 1976, and its project of helping to bring into existence a coherent intellectual and cultural community of gay men:In its cultural politics of building a gay male world, Christopher Street featured poetry and short stories, helping launch the careers of the major gay writers of the late 20th century, such as Edmund White, Andrew Holleran, and Larry Kramer. It also ran many essays that contributed to an emerging awareness that there was a gay male canon in American letters, running from Walt Whitman and Hart Crane to John Ashbery and James Merrill.Christopher Street was by no means the only venue for the construction of a gay world, but [editor Michael] Denneny and his colleagues were perhaps the sharpest-minded defenders of its specificity—their demand that it be a world for gay men. In a debate that has now been largely forgotten, but which dominated gay intellectual life in the 1970s, Denneny’s Arendtian perspective, with its debts to Zionism, was ranged against a vision of politics in which gay men were to be a kind of shock force for a broader sexual-cum-socialist revolution.For Blake, what’s been lost or trumped is less the liberal politics that Jamie champions and that Christopher Street more or less advocated than the existence of a gay male world of letters that had fairly distinct boundaries, a relatively private space in which gay men–who may always remain in some way politically suspect, even reviled, by the mainstream–can recognize and talk to each other.  As he writes in another recent essay in Tablet, maybe half-seriously, “One should, …know one’s own type (Jew, homosexual, philosopher, etc.) and remain at a ‘playful distance’ from those outside it, with ‘no expectation of essential progress’ toward a world in which the sort of people we are can be publicly recognized and respected. No messiahs, and no end to paranoias and persecutions—but, in the shade of deft silences, the possibility of cleareyed fellowship with one’s own kind.”Jamie, Blake, and I had what I found to be a really exciting conversation about all these issues and more. Give it a listen.Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit danieloppenheimer.substack.com/subscribe

This podcast was recorded about a week before its subject, Andrea Long Chu, was awarded the 2023 Pulitzer Prize for criticism, so it doesn't come up in the conversation with Blake Smith, but it's interesting to keep in mind as he and I analyze Chu and try to understand the particular role she plays in the broader intellectual and journalistic ecosystem.Our story begins in early 2018, when the hipster intellectual magazine N+1 published a long essay titled “On Liking Women.” The essay, which went rather viral, was about the author’s transition to being a woman, her fascination with the 1967 radical tract the SCUM Manifesto, the dynamics of sissy porn, and her complicated feelings about wanting to be a woman, wanting women, and the universal fear of being feminized.Its author, Andrea Long Chu, was at the time a doctoral student in comparative literature at NYU, and in all respects unfamous. The essay would change that, rather dramatically. In the way that Ta-Nehisi Coates was, for a time, the black intellectual, and Wesley Yang was the Asian intellectual, Chu became, and perhaps remains, the trans intellectual of the moment. Later that year she wrote another splashy piece,“My New Vagina Won’t Make Me Happy,” for the New York Times. Her 2019 book, Females, got an immense amount of attention. In 2021 she was hired as a staff critic for New York magazine, and in that role has written a series of buzzed about reviews. She’s not famous, exactly, but she’s almost as close to it as journalists get it. She is now friends, for instance, with the genuinely famous Emily Ratajkowski, whom she profiled in The New York Times Magazine, and who later interviewed Chu for her own podcast, High Low with Emrata.As she says to Ratajkowski, some of this success was a matter of timing. There was a space waiting to be filled. Trans issues had gotten big in the culture, and while there were a lot of good trans memoirs out there, and an increasing number of trans people making a name for themselves in the “influencer” space, there was neither an intellectual nor a magazine feature writer who had yet made a name for him or herself reliably and stylishly explaining the trans thing to the world. Chu has been able to step into this space so successfully because she is a stylish writer, because she has a command of the relevant theory, and also because she has that thing that so many it boys and girls of journalism have had: she’s a tease. She comes close and dances away. She reveals and withholds, issues grand pronouncements, and then implies that she’s just kidding … maybe.Here she is at the end of her breakout essay, I am being tendentious, dear reader, because I am trying to tell you something that few of us dare to talk about, especially in public, especially when we are trying to feel political: not the fact, boringly obvious to those of us living it, that many trans women wish they were cis women, but the darker, more difficult fact that many trans women wish they were women, period. This is most emphatically not something trans women are supposed to want. The grammar of contemporary trans activism does not brook the subjunctive. Trans women are women, we are chided with silky condescension, as if we have all confused ourselves with Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, as if we were all simply trapped in the wrong politics, as if the cure for dysphoria were wokeness. How can you want to be something you already are? Desire implies deficiency; want implies want. To admit that what makes women like me transsexual is not identity but desire is to admit just how much of transition takes place in the waiting rooms of wanting things, to admit that your breasts may never come in, your voice may never pass, your parents may never call back.…This is not to garner pity for sad trannies like me. We have enough roses by our beds. It is rather to say, minimally, that trans women want things too. The deposits of our desire run as deep and fine as any. The richness of our want is staggering. Perhaps this is why coming out can feel like crushing, why a first dress can feel like a first kiss, why dysphoria can feel like heartbreak. The other name for disappointment, after all, is love.I’ve been reading and listening to Chu recently, and I find myself atypically confused. I honestly don’t know what she’s trying to say, about gender and sexuality and sex and politics, nor whether she actually believes whatever it is she’s trying to say. I don’t know if she’s the real deal or, like so many it boys and girls of the past, she’s performing a role that is ultimately too disconnected from a genuinely grounded self to write things that are meaningful.To help me process my confusion, I reached out to Blake Smith, who recently wrote a highly critical piece on Chu. Officially, Blake is an historian of modern France coming off a Fulbright in North Macedonia, and before that a PhD from Northwestern University. Unofficially, but more relevantly for our purposes, he’s been writing up a storm of intellectual but accessible essays over the past few years, for a variety of publications, most often Tablet, where the Chu piece was published. These fall into a few different buckets. One is what I’d call his ongoing project to identify potential intellectual and creative resources for the revivification of liberalism. This has manifested in critical essays on various eminent and obscure European and American intellectuals, including folks like Michel Foucault, Philip Rieff, Judith Shklar, Leo Strauss, Jacob Taubes, Richard Howard, and Roland Barthes. Another bucket is criticism of woke thinking and writing, and a third is his interest in queer theory. His Chu piece falls into both of the latter buckets, although Chu has a complicated relationship to woke. It may overlap with the first too, though that’s not as obvious a connection.His Chu piece begins not with Chu herself, but with the archetypal conversion (or transition) story of western civilization, that of Saul of Tarsus, who had a vision of Jesus while on the road to Damascus. He abandoned his Judaism, changed his name to Paul, and dedicated his life to evangelizing for the new faith. Or, in Smith’s tart description, he just changed his stripes, remaining “what he had been before—an antagonizing, persecutory self-promoter,” but with a new lexicon of values and a new set of targets. Smith writes:In his letters to churches throughout the Roman Empire, Paul gave an account of himself as being uniquely guilty and abject—the “chief of sinners”—and especially favored by God. In doing so, he created a powerful and enduring model for the way people seek attention and influence in Western culture, from the Confessions of Augustine to the ubiquitous self-narrations of our own moment. Flamboyant rejection of a former life, a lurid picture of its depravity and danger, the wrenching rapture of being overtaken and undone by an outward power, a new self to be declared and recognized by others, new enemies (shadows of the old self) to be exposed and attacked, and a continual staggering back and forth between declarations of one’s utter unworthiness and ethical exaltation.One of the most successful contemporary practitioners of this mode of confession, in which a conversion is narrated in a mode of self-abasement and self-aggrandizement, is the essayist Andrea Long Chu. In 2018, Chu, who transitioned from male to female, established her reputation with essays for N+1 and The New York Times on her desire for femininity and her feelings about her new vagina. “Few of us” trans women, she argued, “dare to talk about” the truths she purportedly exposed in these essays—that transition is motivated by fetishistic investment in the most external, sexualized aspects of traditional femininity (“Daisy Dukes, bikini tops, and all the dresses, and, my god, for the breasts”)—and that transitioning had made her more dysphoric and “suicidal.”Chu positioned herself in national publications as declaring hidden truths that other people like herself had been too cowardly to avow. Publications from The Point to The Nation to Vogue interviewed her, and New York magazine has more recently hired her, while scholars devote articles and even special issues of journals to her contributions to gender theory. The most notorious of the latter was her 2019 pamphlet-length book, Females, published with Verso, a press that once had something to do with the left. In Females, Chu worked on two different double registers. She played at once comic and serious, giving herself the right to backtrack her most radical claims as ironic “bits.” She gave, moreover, a reading of Valerie Solanas’ SCUM Manifesto (1967) as a statement about the nature of desire as such, for everyone, and as a kind of prefiguring of her own transition. It was as if Chu became the protagonist of Nabokov’s novel Pale Fire, who is convinced that a local writer’s autobiographical poem is in fact the elaborately allegorized story of his own life. Where Solanas had called for the extermination of men, she took her plan only as far as a failed attempt to murder Andy Warhol. Females ends with Solanas, at a distance of half-a-century, killing another “Andy”—Chu’s former, male self. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit danieloppenheimer.substack.com/subscribe

It would be very easy to hate Ezra Klein. He’s only 38, and already has been a pioneering political blogger, a pioneering explanatory journalist for the Washington Post, the founder of Vox.com, the author of the best-selling book Why We’re Polarized, and now a marquis podcaster and columnist for the New York Times.The amount of good fortune that’s come his way is staggering. Not just journalistic and political good fortune, but personal good fortune. His wife, the journalist Annie Lowrey, is a successful journalist with a national profile. Presumably their two kids, whose names are presumably Leo and Daisy, are good looking and brilliant. He’s even rather tall. It’s hard for me to believe this, but the internet says he’s 6’2” (it seems plausible in this photo of him). As journalist Matt Welch wrote of him, in a 2012 profile: “He’s impossibly young, infuriatingly accomplished, and impressively wonky. In a town full of journalistic flop sweat, he glides instead of glistens, handsome enough to make the ladies turn their heads, and affable enough that their boyfriends compete for his attentions, too.”Klein is an American prince, in other words, and I should hate him just on general principle. But I don’t. He’s so earnest, and so hard-working and diligent and thoughtful. His podcast, which I listen to pretty regularly, is excellent. He’s incredibly sharp and informed about politics and power, in particular, but he’s also omni-curious. There are a lot of political types on the show, but also philosophers, scientists, historians, economists, novelists, political scientists, tech types, you name it. I say this not to suck up to Klein, but to try to pin down what’s interesting about him, which is actually rather elusive. He’s super smart, but unlike his good friend and fellow Vox co-founder Matt Yglesias, he’s not super smart in a particularly interesting way. He has been a pathbreaker in the form of his journalism at various points – first as a political blogger, then as an early hardcore wonk journalist for the Washington Post, then as a founder of Vox – but it would be hard to identify what particular ideas Klein has been influential in articulating or promulgating. The big idea with Vox was that it would revolutionize how journalism provides background and context, and it was a bust on that front. His recent book on political polarization sold well and was buzzy for a little while, but I don’t see much evidence that it’s thesis has any staying power. I don’t even remember the thesis. As a thinker, he always strikes me as living in a relatively narrow band somewhere toward the center of wherever the progressive consensus is. So why does he seem so central to it all, and so representative of … something? To try to answer that, this inaugural episode of the Eminent Americans podcast traces Klein as he molds himself into a punchy political blogger right out of college, and then transforms into an omniscient explainer of the world at the Washington Post and Vox, and then transforms again, into who he is now, this more humble, and more chill, maybe-better-maybe-not version of himself. And we look at how he’s been a cipher/symbol/driver for broader trends in journalism and media the whole time. My two guests are Matt Welch, author of the greatest of all Ezra Klein profiles, and Mark Oppenheimer, my brother and longtime comrade-in-arms when it comes to parsing the American intellectual scene. Matt is an editor-at-large for Reason magazine, and one of the hosts of the Fifth Column podcast and newsletter, which is hilarious and great. Mark is the author of various books on religion and American culture and, as of a few weeks ago, author of his own substack. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit danieloppenheimer.substack.com/subscribe